


Augustine

by littleliontree (gentledusk)



Category: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon - All Media Types, Pocket Monsters: X & Y | Pokemon X & Y Versions
Genre: M/M, Names
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-01
Updated: 2014-01-01
Packaged: 2018-01-07 02:19:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1114356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gentledusk/pseuds/littleliontree
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Augustine just wants Lysandre to call him by his first name. Lysandre obliges, and is amused by the effect it has.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Augustine

**Author's Note:**

> Can be found on tumblr at http://littleliontree.tumblr.com/post/71269516467/augustine-fic-lysandre-sycamore

“Professor,” he says, and Professor Sycamore gives him a fond, exasperated smile.

“Lysandre, we’ve known each other for quite a while now, you don’t have to call me ‘Professor’. We’re friends, you can use my first name.” At Lysandre’s silence and impassive look, he flushes and begins to stammer. “I-I mean…I, I know I consider you to be a friend, most definitely! We’re friends…aren’t we?”

 _No,_ he wants to say, _I don’t have friends._ Even people who seem so beautiful and pure on the outside can be so ugly underneath. Often, those who are drawn in by his charisma are repelled by his bluntness sooner or later (usually sooner). But Professor Sycamore…doesn’t seem to mind it. In fact, the professor’s mental filters seem to completely disappear when it comes to praising Lysandre, something he pretends doesn’t affect him but actually leaves him feeling oddly pleased by the sincerity of the compliments.

“Lysandre?” Professor Sycamore says hesitantly, rubbing the back of his neck, and Lysandre realizes he’s still waiting for an answer. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked something like that. I—”

“We’re friends,” he says, because he can see the professor preparing to make a joke out of it all, to try laughing off his sadness and concealing his true feelings, and he won’t stand for such deception, however transparent it may be to him.

Professor Sycamore stops and stares at him in surprise, eyes wide and searching like they’re looking for any hint of insincerity in him.

“We’re friends,” he says again, more firmly this time, as if daring the professor to question the words. “Augustine,” he adds, just to emphasize the point, and in return his friend gives him a smile of pure, honest joy, grinning radiantly like Lysandre’s friendship means the world to him.

“You said my name!” Professor Sycamore—no, Augustine—says excitedly, flapping his hands about like a small child in his enthusiasm. “Wonderful! Truly, this is a momentous occasion!”

“It’s just a name, Prof—Augustine,” he says, though he knows it’s more than that.

“It’s more than that!” Augustine protests, pouting slightly at his apparent disregard for its significance. “It’s always, ‘Professor’ this, ‘Professor’ that, and I _am_ a professor, of course, but…” and here he falters, looking down as if he’s afraid to see Lysandre’s reaction, “now, it’s like you see me as…more. More than just my title.” He smiles again, not out of joy this time, but out of self-deprecation, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. “That’s what it feels like, anyway. I shouldn’t presume—”

“Augustine,” he says, stepping closer, close enough to hear the man’s breath hitch, “you’re being ridiculous.” Because really, how can he not see how much he’s worth? Yes, at first, Lysandre had been drawn to him because of his research, but slowly he had come to appreciate the fervour with which Augustine throws himself into his work, the frequent calls made in the middle of the night because he just can’t contain his excitement about some new breakthrough or theory, the genuine enthusiasm he has when talking to Lysandre about either of their work, whether the conversation is about mega-evolution or the Holo Caster. It’s beautiful, really, so much better than the apathy of the uncaring masses around them. If only more people were as passionate as him.

“Maybe I am,” Augustine says with a laugh—self-deprecation again, and it frustrates Lysandre to no end. “You always say what you mean, it seems, but sometimes it’s hard to know what you’re thinking.”

“Augustine,” he says sharply, causing the man to flinch at his tone. “I’ve said it twice already. Need I make my point once more? You are my _friend._ You are currently the only person I know who has managed to gain such a distinction.”

“I—really?” Augustine says, looking taken aback. “Well, I, I’m honoured—”

“ _Augustine,_ ” he interrupts, because he knows the beginning of one of his friend’s rambles when he hears it, then stops when he sees the slightly dopey grin on said friend’s face. “What?" 

Augustine shakes his head, still grinning. “Nothing, it’s just…that’s the fifth time you’ve said my name.”

“Does it bother you?” Lysandre asks, raising an eyebrow at his statement of the obvious. “You’re the one who asked me to call you that. Shall I go back to calling you ‘Professor’, then?”

“No!” Augustine blurts out immediately, holding his hands up and waving them about. “No. Please don’t. It doesn’t bother me! It just sounds nice when you say it!”

“Does it, now?” Lysandre says, smirking as Augustine blushes and rubs the back of his neck yet again. He wonders if he should tell him about having such an obvious tell for his embarrassment.

“It does,” Augustine says, cheeks pink, smiling crookedly. “Say it again?” he asks, staring up at Lysandre with big, hopeful eyes. 

“Augustine,” he says slowly, deliberately, savouring every syllable. A beautiful name for a beautiful man. He steps even closer, close enough to make Augustine gasp, close enough that their chests are nearly touching, and bends down slightly so that his mouth is right next to the other’s ear. “ _Augustine,”_ he whispers, feeling irrationally pleased about the shiver he gets in response. 

“Lysandre,” Augustine breathes, and the way he says his name is beautiful as well. “Lysandre,” he says again, breath coming quick and uneven, obviously trying to compose himself. “You-you don’t have to say it so many times, my friend, I know my own name—” 

_“Augustine,”_ Lysandre purrs, just to watch him practically melt at the sound of Lysandre’s voice. It’s gratifying, really, to know that he has such power over the man.

“G-Goodness, maybe this was all a very bad idea…” Augustine says faintly, seemingly unaware of the way he’s now clutching at Lysandre’s collar as if to draw him even closer.

Lysandre just chuckles. He doesn’t think he’ll ever get tired of saying his friend’s name.


End file.
